


Turning Tables

by ice_evanesco



Series: Love Songs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were never really the kind for communication. Is it any surprise that they mistake the other party's intentions?</p><p>This is the death of Sebastian Moran, Jim's plaything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Tables

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at writing MorMor.

The muted bark of a silenced gun sounded out, once, twice. The sound of reloading, the magazine sliding in with a click. Then a frenzy of shots.

  
Jim slid off his sunglasses, and strolled down the shooting range, heading immediately to Lane 6. That was Sebastian’s lane, and none of his gunmen ever used it. The last one to try met a Moran in a bad mood, and was used as the target instead. That had been messy.

  
"Darling, darling, darrrrrling." Jim purred, sliding a hand down Sebastian’s back to pat his ass. "What's got you in a strop today?"

  
Sebastian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he squeezed off another shot, "Nothing, sir."

  
"Ah." Jim smiled, knowing exactly what was wrong. "Back to titles again, are we? I thought I told you," His fingers arched into claws- "to call me," -scratched down Sebastian’s back- "Jim."

  
"I feel that we should-" A low growl escaped his throat," -Reestablish boundaries."

  
"What did I say about initiative, Sebastian?" Jim yanked hard on the man's shooting arm, turning him around. For a petite man, he had surprising strength.

  
Sebastian put his gun up as soon as he was yanked, not wanting to accidentally take out Jim's eye… or his brains. He leaned against the counter, where fresh magazines of bullets still sat. A click, safety engaged, and he set the gun down. "I don't quite recall." His voice was thick in disgust (or was it arousal?); Jim was dressed in a tight shirt and jeans that looked as though they were spray painted on. Instead of a pair of leather shoes, slightly scuffed sneakers peeked out from the jeans. "Been to Molly's then?" He deliberately made his voice casual.

  
"I said, initiative is my department, following orders is yours." Jim fisted a hand in Sebastian’s crisp white shirt. The thing about Sebastian was that he looked so normal. Dirty blond hair that had recently been left to grow, and had a slight wave to them, green eyes (cat eyes, Jim thought giddily, this was a man who had taken on the characteristics of the very animal he loved to hunt), tall, solidly built (Jim longed to press against him, but this was a time for discipline. Play time was later), in a crisp white shirt and a pair of black pants, and leather shoes polished like obsidian. He was like any other man. "Also, do I detect a hint of jealousyyyy?"

  
"I'm not jealous." Sebastian said, turning away from Jim. The petite man hated being dismissed like that, in such a derisive manner. It made him feel like he was a small child being chided. It made him want to beat Sebastian up. But he caught sight of that chiseled profile, and couldn't help but admire it. "I'm not jealous. I refuse to be a distraction."

  
He tugged Sebastian down, and whispered, "You're not a distraction, Moran. You are my priority." Their lips hovered millimeters away from each other, so close it looked like they were kissing, so close they could feel each other's heat-

  
Then Sebastian laughed, "Sherlock is your priority. I am a means to the end." His scorn poured over Jim, scalding. His hand covered Jim's, for a moment, gentle. Then he tugged the other off, and grabbed his gun, turning to leave. "To your credit, Jim, you lie in such a pretty manner. I was almost taken in."

  
He left Jim at the shooting range, knowing he would pay for it later, somehow.

  
Sebastian rubbed at his eye with a finger, staring at the wreckage that had been his flat. He rued the day he ever thought being Jim Moriarty’s neighbor was a good idea. Jim had bought the entire floor, which consisted of two duplex penthouses, and had asked Sebastian to move in with him and occupy the other flat. Of course, Jim had a spare key to Sebastian’s flat, and this time he had used it well.

  
The only things intact were his weapons. As a fellow predator, Jim would at least respect the importance of his tools. He ran a finger down the barrel of his trusty sniper rifle, then took a deep breath and turned around. Anything breakable was broken, anything that could be torn also was, and everything was somehow upside down.

  
Must not kill Moriarty, must not kill Moriarty.

  
He took another deep breath, and hung up his coat, beginning to put everything to rights again.

 

* * *

  
Sebastian always considered himself as having a very long fuse, in terms of temper ignition. As a sniper, one couldn’t afford to be impatient, nor could one afford to be swayed by emotions. So when Jim thrashed his flat over and over, he just picked everything up, and Jim threw everything out, and he got brand new everything. When Jim decided to punch him or cause injury to him in any way, he bore with it and patched himself up and sometimes tried to give it as good as it got, so that they had matching bruises. Sebastian could put up with a lot of things.

  
But the last straw came with Jim’s newest sniper. From tip to toe, he was exactly like Sebastian, but younger. Blonde hair in the familiar military cut, green eyes, hard and cold. And he dressed in suits like Sebastian never could.

  
The tension in the room was a choking, stifling heat. Even India’s tropical jungles never felt anything this cloying, this hateful. Hunting tigers wasn’t anything like facing your replacement.

  
And Jim – Jim just stood there with his smile, and said, “Sebastian, meet the newest member of your team. This is Jason.”

  
And it had hurt. Sebastian could feel his throat close up, and that stabbing pain in his chest that was like that time that he got knifed for Jim.

  
This was it, this was the end; Sebastian had finally been replaced, and he – He only fled.

  
The ex-colonel turned on his heel, and walked away. He slid into the car, pressing against the cool leather seats. He watched as the streets passed him, the people living out their silly, insignificant lives, never knowing the things that went on just a street away, just in the shadows. Crime organizations ran as smoothly as the government, sometimes even smoother, because no one dared offer an opinion counter to Jim’s. Drugs being shipped in and out, millions worth of pounds being laundered every day, more money than the average person would see in their life time. He ran a finger along the shot glass of whisky that he poured himself, watching the amber liquid slide around in the glass as he tilted it to catch the light, wondering what it would have been like if he never got involved in all this. If he had just resigned himself to a mediocre fate being normal. He pushed his thoughts away, and swallowed the liquid, letting it burn its way down to his gut.

  
He was soon at their apartment, and climbed the stairs to the second level swiftly, his long legs making short work of the carpeted stairs as he bounded up. He entered his room, tearing off that collar and leash that was his tie, pulling off the shirt – He had hated it anyway. Off came the pants, and the shoes. Everything was strewn on the floor, like some bizarre remembrance of the moments of intimacy that they shared – they had shared. Sebastian reached into the back of his closet, and pulled on a t-shirt that was old, and that Jim always threatened to burn.  The comfort of old, worn in cotton embraced him in the way the Jim never would – never could, and Sebastian wondered why he let himself change for that man.

  
For the sake of Love? Love was idiocy. It was an obvious flaw, a weakness to be exploited. Had Jim really loved him, as he often professed? Had he even loved Jim throughout these months? Or were they two lonely souls walking the dark path, drawn to each other’s light and heat? Colliding in a brilliant moment of heat and warmth, and burning out, like a Wolf-Rayet star, never to be seen again?

  
In the grand scheme of things, he was inconsequential, a replaceable cog in the machine that was Moriarty.

  
Why had he been so stupid as to believe that he was – special? That he was something more? Right, love. All the pretty words, whispered in moments of passion, all the presents… the rarest sniper rifles money could buy, the apartment, the clothes. They had all formed part of Jim Moriarty’s honey trap, and Sebastian let himself get caught, get seduced in a false sense of comfort and security. It had probably been planned down to its last detail, plans reiterated over and over in the genius’ head, what to do when Sebastian said this, or did that, and contingencies for unpredicted moments (but nothing was ever unpredicted, humans had a limited range of actions and reactions after all, within their scope of comfort). Jim planned everything, keeping a beast in a gilded cage so that it was always sated, always drowsy with pleasure, and never rebelled.

  
Jim could have told him to jump, and Sebastian would have asked to which galaxy, and whether he wanted a souvenir on the way down.  Not anymore.

  
The jeans were tugged on, and so were the old army boots. This was him, this was who he was. Suits and ties didn’t make Sebastian Moran. His father had tried, society had tried. Jim had tried, and nearly succeeded, but this was him, jean and t-shirts, old boots, an old, tarnishing pair of ray-bans.

  
He went to Jim’s side of the room, the side he never ventured to unless it was an emergency, and pulled open Jim’s drawers. He pulled out his old army-tags, and slipped them on.

  
His first anniversary gift to Jim. He had nothing much to give then, just recently promoted. He hadn’t wanted to use the money he earned. It was Jim’s money after all, and besides, what could he buy with that money that Jim couldn’t get double or triple of? It had been his way of saying, I belong to you.

  
And when Jim had removed it from the box, his dark eyes had lit up, and instead of his range of high pitched mania, of the low growl of his rage, Jim had said in a soft Irish lilt, made pronounced by emotion, “Thank you, Sebastian. It’s a royal gift.” Sebastian had turned red then, and muttered something in a gruff voice about having nothing better, having nothing that was his to give.

  
He now couldn’t help but wonder if that was an act as well. How much emotion was truly there? Was Jim laughing at him, at his stupidity, at his plebian affections? Sebastian felt the cool weight of the tags against his skin, and pushed the doubts away. He didn’t want to sully old memories… they were all that he had now.

  
They had been just three days shy of the second one, and Sebastian wished he could have made it to that point, at the very least. At least he would have given Jim a taste of a normal relationship. How maudlin of him.

  
His old gun came out of a safe, and he pulled out all the cash for his wallet except a fifty-pound note. He threw his credit cards down, and the bank account card that Jim had gotten for him.

  
This was what it was like, six years ago, down to his last fifty – desperate for something more.

  
He had gotten it, that something more, but he never realized how much of himself he had to sacrifice for that to happen, and how Sebastian would turn from tiger to tamed cat.

  
No more.

  
He left the room, striding out. No Jim.

  
It was testament to how much the other man didn’t care about him; he didn’t even bother to chase after him. Replaceable. Like his superiors had told him, “Moran, you are replaceable, every single one of us are replaceable. If you die here, some other poor sod will be sent out to take your position.”

  
This was dying. This was the death of Sebastian Moran, Chief of Staff.

  
The death of Sebastian Moran, Jim’s plaything.

  
It was a hollow victory. No more crazed grins, no more “Seb, look! I got you a heart, so kiss me”, no late nights, no early (obscenely early) mornings. No brutal kisses, no desperate release of tension in the middle of the night, no commemorative bruises the day after.

  
He walked out.

* * *

  
Jim was stunned, when Sebastian suddenly turned and left.

  
The other man had been sullen for a long time, and Jim thought this would cheer him up, training some kid that was in the position he once was. Sebastian had a tender heart for someone so cold.

  
He didn’t get it, and went about his day.

  
Emotions were so not his territory after all. Oh, he knew emotions, alright. He knew how to manipulate emotions, how to turn people to his favor. But he was almost as inept as everyone’s favorite consulting detective when understanding how it applied to him.

  
But that night, when he returned to a dark apartment, he got an inkling that something hadn’t been right.

  
There wasn’t the telly on. No Sebastian to curl up to, and watch Doctor Who with. No Chinese take-outs on the table, slowly cooling, perfuming the air with promises of exotic places.

  
Jim tugged off his jacket and his tie slowly, rationalizing. Maybe Seb was just asleep in the room. He had a long day after all. He walked into the bedroom, and turned on the lights.

  
A white shirt lay on the floor like a dead thing. The leather shoes had been kicked off unceremoniously. The closet door was open, and Jim stuck his head inside.

  
The t-shirt and jeans were gone.

  
So was the boots.

  
Jim’s hand flew to his lips. The fingers curled into a fist and he pressed it hard until teeth cut the sensitive flesh of the inside of his mouth. The roiling of emotions was so human- so detestable and boring.

  
He turned, and saw his drawer open, like a confession, the dog-tags missing. He whirled around, trying to find something – something to refute all his deductions, wanting for once to be wrong, Wrong, WRONG. He wanted to be stupid – wanted to have some hope.

  
The cards and money were there, and he cursed – Stupid, stupid, human Sebastian. He had too much pride, so much he thought he could survive on just a fifty-pound note. Jim closed his eyes, everything was too much. The damning evidence was everywhere. He was alone again.

  
He took out his phone, and texted it.

  
Sebastian, where have you gone? – JM

  
Get me dinner, I don’t know where that food place is. – JM

  
Sebastian, this is urgent – JM

  
Sebastian, I miss you – No, he wouldn’t resort to emotional pleas. He deleted that.

  
Three beeps sounded out, and Jim turned around to find Sebastian’s phone on the bed.

  
He buried his face in the blankets.

* * *

  
The last time they met was because Sebastian couldn’t stay away. London only offered so much for a man with fifty pounds, and Sebastian was getting tired of killing people for their wallets and their money. He was surprised that the Scotland Yard never caught up to the murders.

  
He was surprised that Sherlock never came running.

  
But then he was dumb; Jim’s moron.

  
He only realized it when someone came to clear up the corpse, when Sebastian was slumped across from the body, half asleep, completely drunk.

  
He opened his eyes when he heard a sound; a life on the underbelly of London made you cautious at best after all. His gun pressed against a forehead and a familiar face turned. “Sir-!”

  
Sebastian only stared back. “Duncan- Why are you here?”

  
The other man just shook his head, and tugged the body off.

  
Jim must have sent him. He grabbed Duncan and pressed him for Jim’s whereabouts the next day. He wasn’t privy to those kinds of information anymore, after all. He had left his phone back at their – Jim’s apartment.

  
He was going to tell Jim to fuck off out of his life, and leave him be. He didn’t need this- this- whatever Jim was trying to do.

  
The next day, he was sitting opposite St Bart’s.

  
He knew he wouldn’t be allowed onto the stage that Jim was playing on, so he took the next best option, a building directly opposite.

  
He saw Jim and Sherlock. They never saw him, players so immersed in their play that they had blocked out the entire world. The lines delivered so perfectly that no one would ever be able to guess that there hadn’t been a rehearsal, and nor would there be a reenactment. He could almost hear Jim taunting Sherlock, bringing out the worst in him, coaxing it out, patiently.

  
He witnessed Jim taking out the gun, and he bolted to his feet; never mind that he was giving out the position of his – not his anymore, Jim’s – team of snipers.

  
Never mind that he wasn’t supposed to be there.

  
Never mind that he was interrupting Jim’s best performance ever; his swan song.

  
And he was screaming, “NO, STOP- STOP-! JIM, STOP IT! JIM, I LOVE YOU!”

  
Jim never heard. The wind carried his voice away, snatching away the last words he would speak to this man who never would – never could embrace him like a normal person.

  
This man who he realized he needed, that he craved.

  
This man who was there for him at his lowest, and spiraled him up to new heights.

  
This man who watched crap telly with him, and fell asleep on him, and punched him and kissed him.

  
“JIM!”

  
The other man saw him, and Sebastian thought – imagined, hallucinated – that just for one second there were tears.

  
But there was definitely a smile, and a bang. And as Jim Moriarty went down, so did Sebastian Moran.

  
He collapsed, face drawn and white, and tears spilling onto the dusty concrete, whispering over and over like a mantra, “Jim- Jim- Jim-”

  
He had been right after all. He was a means to an end, and Sherlock- Sherlock was the priority.

  
Jim.


End file.
